Knife the Watermelon
by EddieKickAxe
Summary: Something was wrong; Soap could tell. A creeping terror permeated his very being. Was this a memory? A dream? Reality? And why, for the love of God, was there watermelons? (An extremely serious oneshot regarding a certain Scotsman with a Mohawk being haunted by morally questionable fruit. You have been warned.)


_A/N: Dedicated to my main man Nick, who came up with this idea, and our accomplices Julian and Adam (you guys rock my socks)_

_Treyarch/Activision/Infinity Ward/people with money own the Boyband 141 and the Call of Modern World Black Advanced Ghosts Ops Warfare series. I make no dolla$ from this abomination_

_Medal of Honor to whoever can sit through this much poorly used British slang and not hurl...and to format or not to format, that is the question_

* * *

It all started during training. Gaz had wanted to get a point across.

_Drawing your knife is faster than drawing a pistol in close quarters,_ he had instructed. And lo and behold, didn't he have the perfect demonstration setup .

"Knife the watermelon," Gaz ordered, to a rather confused John MacTavish.

"U wot m8," MacTavish replied. Gaz motioned to the table and repeated himself. Soap just shrugged and whipped his combat knife through the melon like it was his damn birthright.

"Nice! Your fruit killing skills are remarkable!" Gaz complemented, receiving an eyeroll from a now slightly irritated Soap, whose gloves were covered in sticky melon juice. John huffed but continued on as usual, praying the rest of training wouldn't involve any fruit massacres. Or he had about a minute to pray before he turned a corner and nearly ran straight into Gaz again.

"Hello John," Gaz greeted, gazing intently at Soap while holding- hang on, is that _another_ damn watermelon?

"Uh, 'lo Gaz..." MacTavish trailed off, not really knowing what to say. Gaz had a creepy sort of grin on his face, shadowed under his Union Jack cap. He looked down at the green armored fruit he cradled for a moment, then thrust it out towards Soap. Soap flinched back, confused and weary of the maniacal smile Gaz had.

"Knife the watermelon," Gaz ordered.

"Wot?" Soap blurt out, dumbstruck, "Gaz no I already-"

"Knife. The. Watermelon," Gaz repeated forcefully.

"Gaz I already ran through BCT there's no need-" At this, Gaz seemed to growl out some unintelligible, inhuman noise that shocked Soap into silence. He looked on in horror the eyes shadowed beneath Gaz's cap began to glow red.

Er, well, not really red actually. They weren't a demonic or fiery shade. A tad bit more pale than red, Soap thought, and if he was honest, they actually looked a rather juicy pink.

_Like the guts of a bloody watermelon._

Soap turned around and hauled ass like no tomorrow. He looked back once, only to see Gaz squeezing chunks of melon between his fingers, big watery hunks falling like freshly minced intestines. Soap ran even faster.

* * *

**"PROICE! PROICE! PROICE!"**

MacTavish burst through Price's office door, shouting like mad. Price, who had been casually eating lunch, received quite a shock and fumbled his fork a moment. He then scowled at Soap with his best grumpy old man face he could muster.

"The hell is wrong now Soap?"

"It's..It's Gaz sir," Soap panted, "He's...something is wrong with him."

"Oh?" Price replied, mildly interested. "How so?"

"Well, his eyes seem to be..." Soap carefully chose his words as Price brought the fork back to his mouth, "Reddened, sir. He seems rather _unhinged_, if you understand me."

Price just grumbled and spun back around in his chair.

"Look Soap, why don't you just calm down and have a seat. Here, want some fruit salad?" He waved the fork over his shoulder to show Soap.

"No I don't want bloody fruit salad Price! I want answers!" Soap exclaimed, exasperated.

"Are you sure Soap? Are you sure you don't fancy some-" Soap froze in horror as Price spun back around in his seat, his face dripping with sticky liquid, chunks of red in his beard-

"_WATERMELON?!"_

* * *

_**"PROICE! NO! NO! NOT YOU TOO!"**_

"Wake up! It's a bloody dream!"

Captain John MacTavish woke up in a panic, tangled in the sheets on his bed. Only to see a giant, grinning skull in his face.

And nearly have a heart attack.

The next moments were a blur (to say the very least) involving flying fists, heated British profanities, and the loud thumping noise the two men made when colliding with the floor.

By the time they regained their wits and disentangled themselves, a trickle of blood was sliding down from the corner of Soap's mouth, and Ghost's favorite pair of sunglasses were sporting several cracks.

"Thanks for the rude awakening, muppet," Soap ground out, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

Lt. Simon Riley rolled up the bottom half of his balaclava to give Soap a shit-eating grin followed by a thumbs up and a reply of "Anytime m8."

"Goddamn," Soap moaned, rising to his feet. He held out a hand and pulled his friend up as well. "Why the hell are you wearing that thing in the middle of the night anyway?"

"Wot, this?" Ghost asked, positioning his signature balaclava back over his face.

"Yeah that." Soap turned back around to fix his now messy bed. "I already know what a looker you are under it," he chuckled, placing his fallen pillow back against the headboard. "So why don't you just take the damn thing off?"

At this suggestion, Ghost laughed. That in and of itself wasn't necessarily a bad thing, however, Soap had spent hours with Ghost at his side, and he knew Ghost had multiple laughs.

The sort of laugh he heard from behind him was generally reserved for when they brought out the car battery and jumper cables. It made his blood run cold.

"As you wish, Captain," Ghost rasped in a very twisted, dark sort of tone. Soap slowly turned, eyes wide, to see his brother-in-arms grip the bottom of his mask and pull it up, only to reveal-

another

damned

_watermelon._

* * *

Soap jumped into consciousness, tangled in his sheets and sweating bullets. He let out some sort of incomprehensible noise and sat bolt upright. He was relieved when he saw no sign of his skull faced roommate, and everything in their shared space seemed to be in order.

After a quick shower, (his alarm clock told him he'd overslept quite a bit) Soap found his way down to the nearly empty mess hall, praying he could salvage something of a breakfast.

"Heyyyyyy Captain! Over here!"

Soap couldn't help but defeatedly moan as he walked over to the table where Sanderson sat waving wildly at him, alongside Ghost. MacTavish silently reminded himself to demand that he receive a Medal of Honor delivered personally by the Queen for "having to deal with Sanderson before having coffee" once he was discharged.

"Good morning Captain!"

"Mmf, morning Roach," Soap mumbled, accepting the mug of brewed heaven Ghost pushed his way with a nod of thanks.

"We didn't think you'd ever get up! So we snagged a tray for you!" Roach happily shoved a tray of food in his direction. Soap wondered if it was possible to get F.N.G. status to be changed to F.O.P.- Effing Overgrown Puppy. It would fit Roach a hell of a lot better. How was he so silent during missions anyway? MacTavish couldn't get him to shut up any other time.

Still not entirely awake, but thankful to his two allies for grabbing him breakfast, Soap picked up a fork and looked down.

On his tray sat two slices of God. Damn. _Watermelon._

"We even managed to save you some fruit! You like watermelon, right Boss? And Ghost and I-" Roach began rambling, only to be interrupted by what could only be described as a roar from MacTavish, who then leapt to his feet and flung the watermelon, plate and all, across the mess hall. He then spun on his heels and sprinted out of the room, his hands clutching at his messy mohawk, screaming something about watermelons and nightmares.

Ghost and Roach both sat stunned, until Roach slammed his hands down on the table with a muttered curse.

"So I suppose Operation Sorry-I-Fell-Off-A-Cliff is no more?" Ghost chuckled. Roach just huffed and crossed his arms, pouting. How was he supposed to know Soap hated watermelon?


End file.
